The Irredeemable Miss Renfield (Uncommon Courtships Book 3) Read online

  “Then of course you won’t be taking Cleo,” Leslie said blandly.

  He had hoped to nettle her, which she so enjoyed, and was pleased when she bristled immediately, eyes bright with challenge. “I most certainly will. She must be seen in all the right circles if she’s to catch someone better than that fancy jacketed major. But you are right that she would be wasted on Breckonridge.”

  Leslie rather thought she might. He had nothing against Breckonridge, but Lady Agnes was right that he’d surely want a wife with better social connections than a horse-mad orphan from Castle Combe.

  “So, you’ll dance with her at the ball?” Lady Agnes pressed. “Get reacquainted?”

  “Very well,” Leslie replied with a sigh of martyrdom that he was sure would follow him through the event. “I promise to be a gentleman and meet her. I will even help her find her way in Society. But I will not allow you to dictate my choice of bride, and there is nothing you or Cleopatra Renfield can do about it.”

  Chapter Two

  C

  leopatra Renfield stood stiffly along the silk-draped wall at Almack’s. No one looking at her would have seen anything but a docile young lady on her first Season, she was sure. Her modest gown was of white silk with gold trimming and glass bead spangles. Her long brown hair was done up in a thick bun at the nape of her neck, effectively hiding its red highlights that hinted of a fire within. She was quiet and unassuming. She hadn’t spoken above four words to any gentleman all evening. She hadn’t favored any of them with a second dance, no matter how hard she was begged. No one would be able to find fault in her behavior.

  No one would know that a rebellious heart beat in her breast.

  Certainly Electra on her right and Andromeda on her left did not appear to notice anything more objectionable than usual in her. Both her half-sisters stood equally stiff, though far less demure, their sandalwood fans waving condescendingly before their dark silk ball gowns, the ostrich plumes in their hair nodding along in time. Anyone seeing them would know them for what they were–comfortable Society matrons. Never mind that Ellie had been the belle of the Season once. The tarnished blond hair in its tight bun had flowed in golden waves down her back, and her amply padded girth had been a nicely curved bundle. Cleo remembered that much from her childhood. Annie had always been the plainer with her soft brown hair and perennially plump body. But even then they had known how to act in unison to thwart her.

  The very fact that they had taken up residence at her side since her arrival at the assembly rooms galled her. They had insisted on chaperoning her tonight alongside Lady Agnes as if Cleo could not be trusted to keep her word. She had agreed to meet Lord Hastings. They had no need to watch over her as if she were some kind of prisoner.

  Yet the feeling of being on the gallows persisted as she watched others waltzing across the ballroom floor. She had not yet been given permission to waltz, despite the fact that in the four years since its introduction the dance had been embraced by most everyone in London Society. Why even the Prince danced it! However, if her sisters had their way, she would never be given the opportunity to ask one of the famed lady patronesses for permission.

  Indeed, it was only through Lady Agnes’ connections that she had been granted vouchers for Almack’s regular assemblies. Neither Ellie nor Annie was particularly well received by the haughty patronesses. Ellie had married into trade, though Cleo suspected she had calculatingly chosen her wealthy husband, George Carlisle the banker. His funds had allowed Annie a better dowry, and she had married an impoverished baron. Unfortunately, the fact that Lord Stephenson gambled heavily and drank more kept many from associating with her.

  But however unhappy her sisters might be, she did not think that gave them the right to make her equally wretched. She could not understand why they would begrudge her even so little bit of fun as the waltz, but begrudge her they did. They watched the dancers now with the looks of cats who had sipped sour cream. And Cleo could do no more than stand between them and fight with herself to keep from dashing away to freedom.

  She waited impatiently for any sign of her godmother. Lady Agnes had claimed to have seen Lord Hastings arrive just as the waltz had begun and gone off to fetch him. Unfortunately, Cleo’s diminutive stature prevented her from seeing beyond the couples immediately in front of her, offering only glimpses of the rest of the attendees as the dancers parted.

  It was a tremendous crush. Lady Prestwick must have been pleased to see her first ball so well attended. Of course, Cleo had no intention of attracting the famous Lord Breckonridge. Why would she want to marry a fellow nearly old enough to be her father? But by the number of young ladies swirling past in the dance or promenading by her, she was the only unmarried female to feel that way. She could only imagine the thicker clump of bodies on the far side of the room must have been surrounding the great man himself.

  “Look, it’s that Compton chit,” Ellie said over her head to Annie.

  Annie tsked. “They swarm to her like bees to clover. I wish she would leave a few for the rest of the young ladies.”

  Cleo longed to stand on tiptoe and crane her neck to see how accurate her sister’s comments might be. She’d heard similar jealous comments from others concerning Miss Persephone Compton, the reigning Incomparable. But she knew her sisters would be mortified by such unladylike behavior. A lady did not call undue attention to herself. Of course, they would soon be far more than mortified if dear old Les agreed to the plan she had concocted. The problem was, she wasn’t sure she could convince him to help.

  She hadn’t seen Leslie since the summer before her parents had died, six years ago. He had spent part of every summer near their country home, visiting the godmother they shared. Four years her senior, he had nonetheless been ready to ride and fish and hunt with her. At least, at first. That last summer, he’d been far more interested in setting up a flirtation with the barmaid at the local inn than in anything she might suggest. He’d even refused to smuggle her into the bare knuckles brawl between the county champion and a gentleman from London.

  At fourteen, she had not been particularly interested in the way a gentleman looked. Perhaps he had been handsome, but he had seemed just as gangly as she was then, all long arms and legs for all his more worldly outlook. He certainly didn’t have the dash of some of the cavalry officers she’d met since coming to London. But then, she didn’t have the dash of Persephone Compton.

  If she had the courage to proceed with her plan, she would never wear Miss Compton’s Incomparable label. She rather thought the term applied to her would be Irredeemable. But she found she did not care. She had been content living on her sister’s country estate. She would much prefer to return to the country, ride and hunt and fish. If London Society deplored her and left her alone, it would merely give her an excuse never to visit her sisters.

  “Miss Compton will catch Breckonridge as well,” Annie predicted now. “You wait and see, Mrs. Carlisle.”

  “I’m sure you are correct, Lady Stephenson,” Ellie replied with a regretful shake of her head. “His dancing this waltz with her chaperone no doubt only serves to convince her of his devotion to every aspect of her life. A sad display.”

  The crowds parted for a moment, and Cleo was treated to a picture of a mature couple swirling in the dance. He was tall, his features dark and rugged, and his demeanor smacking of a man used to power. She was blond, calm, composed. But the thing that struck Cleo most was the intense way they gazed into each other’s eyes. Now, that was what love looked like. A shame it was so rare. Certainly she had no expectation of having a gentleman look at her that way. Her sisters, her schoolmates, even some of the people in the quiet little village near her sister’s estate had let her know that she was an oddity. She couldn’t understand why her sisters had insisted that she make her comeout now, three years after she’d graduated from the Barnsley School.

  She allowed a sigh to escape her and felt each of her sisters take a step closer, hemming her in as if expecting
her to bolt on them. She would have liked nothing better, but she knew she had nowhere to go.

  They had acted so fiercely ever since her parents had died. Her sisters hadn’t even waited for the funeral to end before telling her that her days of pleasure were over.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering what we plan for you,” Ellie had intoned as they watched the funeral procession pass the house. At fourteen, Cleo hadn’t wondered anything more than why God, who she had always been taught was a merciful, loving fellow, would want to take her mother and father from her. “It’s time you grew up, Cleo.”

  “Father cozened you terribly,” Annie had added, as if that explained everything.

  “And I do not approve of cozening children,” Ellie had continued as if from great experience, even though she had not been blessed with any children of her own. “As soon as things are settled here, you’ll be going off to school to learn to be a proper lady. No more of this wildness, miss.”

  She hadn’t been certain exactly what wildness she was supposed to stop but soon learned it seemed to have something to do with everything she found enjoyable. She had loved their little manor house near Castle Combe. She had had to vacate it for the distant male relative who had inherited. She had loved her books and childhood toys given to her by her parents and godmother. She had been forced to choose only a few personal belongings that would fit in a trunk for school and watch the others given away to charity. Above all, she had loved her precious horse Pegasus, spending hours each day in the saddle or combing and currying the lovely bay mare. She had sobbed as their neighbor Mr. Matthews had led the horse away for his odious son Kirby. That’s when she discovered she did not know how to be a lady.

  Ellie and Annie knew all about being ladies. Their mother, it seemed, had been one while Cleo’s had not. They had any number of rules to prove they were ladies. Ladies did not ride astride. Ladies did not fish or hunt. Ladies spoke sparingly without giving way to any emotion. Ladies didn’t do anything even remotely smacking of fun, that she could tell.

  She had hoped the school they chose for her might be easier, but if anything it was worse. There, ladies did nothing but paint with watercolors, carry on conversations about the weather, and bat their eyes insipidly until some fellow took pity and married them. Between her sisters and the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, she had been given a very thorough grounding in what it took to be a lady.

  She was fairly certain she didn’t want to be one.

  The waltz ended. The couples parted, and several applauded Lord Breckonridge and Miss Compton’s chaperone, who was her cousin Miss Sarah Compton, if memory served. Cleo rather hoped the elder Miss Compton had won the man’s heart. He certainly looked besotted. How nice to have a fellow who valued a lady for who she was.

  As Cleo’s view widened, she spotted several of her former classmates across the room. Many of the Barnsley School misses who had been Cleo’s age had already found husbands, but some were on their third Season as she started her first. Her friend Marlys Rutherford raised a hand in greeting. The others quickly hid behind their fans, causing Marlys to pale and lower her hand. Her friend didn’t flaunt the rules; she had a tyrannical mother and a healthy fear of censure. Cleo liked her all the better for her show of bravery.

  The fans were set once more in motion as another of their former classmates glided by. Eloise Watkin had been two years behind Cleo in school and quite the envy of her classmates. Now the beauty was dressed in a modestly cut gown of a pale peach, designed to draw attention to her considerable assets. Most of the men present were noticing, pausing in their conversations as she approached, raising their quizzing glasses as she passed. Even Major Cutter, the most interesting man of Cleo’s acquaintance in London, had shown a marked preference for her company.

  “She is as cruel as Miss Compton in keeping the gentlemen’s attention,“ Marlys had complained only yesterday. “Why, when Major Cutter favored her with two dances at the Badgerly ball last week, I was possessed of an unladylike desire to spill punch all down the front of her expensive gown.”

  “It would only have made it cling all the more,” Cleo had pointed out with a commiserating smile.

  Marlys might envy Eloise, but Cleo had other feelings entirely. Eloise craved attention. She had won the best marks; excelled at voice, pianoforte, and harp; and mastered her seat on a horse. Only Cleo and the headmistress of the Barnsley School knew just how far she’d go to get the attention she so prized.

  And Cleo had promised never to tell.

  “Here comes Lady Agnes,” Ellie said sharply, interrupting her thoughts. “Smile, Cleo!”

  “Remember your manners,” Annie added, stiffening. “Do nothing to make him take you in dislike.”

  Cleo stiffened as well, but even that did not give her a view of her godmother. Then suddenly the people in front of her moved aside, and she gasped.

  Leslie was little like what she remembered. He had grown into his long legs and large hands. Indeed, he filled the shoulders and chest of the well-cut black evening coat as well as the spotless white satin breeches with a lithe body that moved gracefully and confidently. She didn’t think the glossy shine in his short, straight black hair was from a cosmetic jar, nor the spring in his step from endless hours over a gaming table. Eyes that were once as friendly as hot chocolate now percolated with something far warmer and more potent.

  The only thing about him that hadn’t changed was his self-deprecating half smile. Even as he approached, one side of his mouth titled up in wry appreciation. She wasn’t sure what he found so amusing, but it did her composure little good. How could she possibly propose her plan to such a paragon? Was she the only one who didn’t fit in London Society?

  “I wasn’t sure we would reach you alive,” Lady Agnes complained, fanning herself with her hand. “What a crush. Lady John Stephenson and Mrs. George Carlisle, you remember my dear Lord Hastings. And of course, so do you, Cleo.”

  Annie and Ellie dropped deep curtsies. Cleo almost followed suit, but Leslie’s hand shot forward to clasp one of hers. Her fingers were dwarfed in his grip.

  “My dear Miss Renfield,” he intoned, “how you have grown.”

  Cleo stared at him. His voice was as warm as a fur-trimmed cloak and just as enveloping. Her heart started beating unaccountably fast. He inclined his head, slowly bringing her hand to his lips. The scent of leather and mint washed over her. He pressed a kiss against her knuckles, and she caught her breath. Then, under cover of his kiss, he pressed his thumb more deeply into her fingers in a quick caress. Goosebumps pimpled her arms.

  Annie elbowed her in the side, and she remembered that ladies were supposed to respond to a gentleman’s attentions.

  “Lord Hastings,” Cleo murmured, “you are much changed as well.”

  She managed to drop a curtsey at last, hoping that would force him to release her hand. Instead, he merely used her movement as an excuse to hold her hand even longer, ostensively to raise her back up. Again his thumb caressed her fingers.

  “Not at all,” he assured her as if discussing the weather. “Would you do me the honor of a promenade? We have a number of years to share.”

  If he was anyone else, she would have turned him down. Her emotions skittered from annoyance to fascination and back again. Leslie had never flirted with her before. She wasn’t entirely sure Leslie knew how to flirt, the barmaid at the Castle Combe inn notwithstanding. Who was this man pretending to be her childhood friend?

  She peered up at him, confused, and for the first time saw the twinkle of glee in those dark brown eyes. He was laughing at the entire situation, playing their game the same way she was. She nearly grinned in relief but remembered herself in time.

  “It would be my pleasure, my lord,” she assured him, allowing him to thread her hand through his arm.

  “With your gracious permission, ladies?” he inquired of her sisters.

  “Certainly, Lord Hastings.” Ellie’s voice sounded suspiciously like a purr. “Take as lo
ng as you like.”

  “I’m sure she’s in good hands with you,” Annie agreed with an ingratiating smile.

  “Have her back in time to partner Nathan Witherall in the quadrille,” Lady Agnes commanded.

  Leslie made a noise that must have sounded agreeable to Lady Agnes, for all it sounded noncommittal to Cleo, and they were free. As they stepped away from her sisters, she saw them exchange triumphant glances. Only Lady Agnes looked unenthusiastic, her feathery brows drawn together over her long nose in a frown.

  Cleo thought perhaps Leslie would revert to the youth she remembered right away, but as they began their stroll around the dance floor, he maintained his sophisticated veneer.

  “Lovely weather for this time of year, don’t you think, Miss Renfield?” he asked, moving slowly through the crush of crowd.

  She could not be so serious. “Oh, most certainly, Lord Hastings,” she murmured, batting her eyes in a way that would have made the Barnsley School proud. “And may I be so bold as to inquire the name of the fold of your cravat? I vow I have never seen one so elegantly tied.”

  He lifted his head as if to better display the rather ordinary white silk. “It’s the Incomparable, if you must know. Invented it myself.”

  She stifled a giggle, and he cast her a quick grin before schooling his face to studied boredom once more. “Of course,” he continued with a familiar glint in his eyes, “I very nearly named it the Incompetent, as it’s a decided pain to tie.”

  She laughed out loud, and the group of women they were passing whispered behind their fans. Leslie’s narrowed-eye stare made them suck in their breaths. He turned Cleo away from them and steered her toward an empty spot near a bust of Diana.

  “So, Sprout,” he said when they were as alone as they could be in the crowded room. She grinned to hear his childhood nickname for her. “How are you coming on? I was sorry to hear about your parents.”